Every Murderer
by Shini no Miko
Summary: A character study of Farfarello... Very weird, and rather violent.


  
  


_Every murderer is probably someone's old friend._  


  
  
A little boy shoves his hands under scalding hot tap water and watches, unflinching, as the water runs over his small hands. It turns his hands a raw red, but does not hurt. He thumbs off the tap, and turns away, drying his hands on the kitchen towel.  
  


  
I like little Pussy  
Her coat is so warm,  
And if I don't hurt her  
She'll do me no harm;  
So I'll not pull her tail,  
Nor drive her away,  
But Pussy and I  
Very gently will play.  
  


If you don't touch the kitten meanly, his mother scolded gently, she won't scratch you like that.  
But I didn't touch her, he said for perhaps the fifth time.  
His mother clucked her tongue and continued to dress his wound. The long, surprisingly deep, scratches stretched down the inside of his left arm, like many little suicide attempts. We'll have to take you to the doctor's and get a shot, now, so that you don't get sick.  
I'm fine, he said quietly.  
I just don't understand what you could have done to make her so angry. She's so nice with your sister and I. She even likes your father.  
  
  


_Ich bin das Alpha und das Omega, spricht der Herr, Gott, der ist und der war und der kommt, der Allmächtige.   
  
_

They used to tell him that life had no end. If he was good, they said, his soul would live forever in Heaven. If he were cruel, he would be tortured forever in hell.  
He remembers the day when he stood, soaked in the blood of his parents, and realized that there was no Hell or Heaven waiting for him. His pain and his joy were both on Earth, always there. The former always with him, life a constant agony, the latter, a brief reprieve when he could feel blood over his hands.  
In time, he came to block out the strength of the pain around him. Physical pain was nothing. Perhaps the cacophony in his mind was greater than it had ever been, but, compared to the noise in other people's thoughts, it was still nothing. He learned to live for that which was good to him, the sins, perhaps, of the flesh.  
What was Almighty and ever-present was pain, and the beautiful angels were the kill.  
  
  


_A child has 33 vertebrae in his spine.  
And adult only has 26._  


  
  


_As I walked by myself,  
_

He remembers a dim side street in Dublin, empty except for trash bins and an old drunk slouched against the piss-stained brick wall.  


_And talked to myself,  
_

He hummed a song to himself as he approached the semi-conscious man. He looked sickly, and close to death anyhow. The smell of his passing mingled the the stench of urine and garbage that clung to the alleyway.  


_Myself said unto me:_  


What a pretty little boy, he said to himself as he stood at the drunk's feet, watching the man slip in and out of consciousness. The man's organs were most likely failing from too much drink. His nose was bright from broken capillaries, his eyes bloodshot, his skin too red because his organs wouldn't accept the blood anymore. It had been pushed back up into the man's face, rejected.  


Look to thyself,   
Take care of thyself,  
For nobody cares for thee.  
  
_ I answered myself,_  


He bent, and picked up the man by his throat. It startled the drunk, and he tried to fight, his heart struggling to keep pumping. His eyes had become wide with sweet terror.  


_And said to myself,_  


He lifted the man to his feet, and held him close against the wall. He could smell the wine and beer and stronger stuff on the man's breath. He could differentiate the scent of each different liquor, as well as the individual scents of tooth decay and vomit.  


_In the selfsame repartee:_  


Such a pity, he said softly as he slammed the man's head against the brick wall. He pushed the man's skull against the wall with such force the the over-full head broke quickly, smattering too much blood and some grey matter against the walls.  


Look to thyself,  
Or not to thyself,  


Surprisingly, the man was still alive, just barely, his heart pumping wildly despite the massive damage to the brain. Like a chicken with its head cut off. He had seen them before, many times, running through the streets of his home town, wild, pointless, beautiful.   
He lowered the man to the ground, and straddled his waist. Then, with a sweet smile on his face, he plunged his hands into the man's middle, just below where the two sides of the ribcage met, got his hand-hold, and pulled up forcefully.  
The blood rushed over his hands, up his arms, covered his face, as the man's body arched with the force of his movement. He felt the spine snap with the force of it, along with the cracking of all the other ribs. That was it. The man was dead. He felt his interesting waning already. Perhaps this man had not been as interesting as he had thought. Sweet enough, but not lasting.  


The selfsame thing will be.  


  
  
It was a land on fire, hot, bright with lights both false and natural. He spent a moment staring at the green colour his skin had suddenly been tinted. Then red, then pink, a terribly bright hue of orange, like the hair of someone he had seen... Someone...  
The streets were black, glittering with shards of glass, like diamonds. The little bits of reflectiveness, mixed into the tar like human minds mixed into life. Once you broke and fell in, there was no way of getting out.  
  


  


I can keep a secret. Well! Well! He promises so much with his soft voice. They think he's crazy. They keep his wrapped up like a Christmas present in a white straitjacket that wouldn't stop him even if he wanted it to. He doesn't.  
No one understands him, save maybe the redhead. But the German's understanding is due to the fact that he is able to plunge into anyone's mind at any moment he so desires. His knowledge is not limited to the will of fate, as the American's is. He is at no one's mercy, and prefers it that way.  
  
  


_fili mi ne ambules cum eis prohibe pedem tuum a semitis eorum  
pedes enim illorum ad malum currunt et festinant ut effundant sanguinem  
frustra autem iacitur rete ante oculos pinnatorum  
ipsique contra sanguinem suum insidiantur et moliuntur fraudes contra animas suas  
  
_

Men are small-minded, greedy little monsters.  
Schuldig laughs. Yes, but we are more than just men, aren't we, then?  
he says, fingering a knife, making tiny, little nicks in his thumb. We are all greedy, just for different things.  
  
Yes, quite.  
A smirk plays on the redhead's lips. He seems to think he has caught a loophole in his comrade's ideology. And you? What do you want?  
Blood... Death... I want to cause pain to others - I want joy.  
His smile falls, and he looks pensive, and maybe a little uneasy. I see, he says stiffly.  
And _you_ want those things, too, he says quietly, catching the redhead's expression carefully. You crave the blood of others because it reminds you that you are alive. You want death because it is better that guy than you.' Someone else's pain is your ecstasy... Just as it is mine.  
says the other man, his voice shaking. That's why we're together, that's why we're here. The other two are just unscrupulous enough to kill for money. But we two...  
We shall kill for the joy.  


  
  
_The human body generally contains approximately 2.8 litres (6 pints) of blood.  
This is not quite enough to cover 9.3 square metres (100 square feet) of wall space._  
  
  
If I'd as much money as I could tell,  
I never would cry young lambs to sell;  
Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell;  
I never would cry young lambs to sell.  
  


  


_Run and catch, run and catch, the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch... _  
  
  
_Read my riddle, I pray.  
_He laughed the first time he heard it, and he still laughs. _  
What God never sees,  
_Everything in the world is imperfect, flawed. God is not infallible, no one is._  
What the king seldom sees,  
_Pain rules everything, even God, even him. Lack of pain is just the same as full feeling._  
What we see every day.  
_All men are equal in their suffering and base nature.   


  
  
_I am afraid of little. I speak of lesser still.   
The secrets waiting in my heart, will surely, quickly kill.   
And when, with   
Snow, and gold, and red, the death of man descends,  
This story, tale of dark and life, hastens to my ends._  
  
The little girl who is staring at him is sweet-looking, with pudgy little cheeks, and soft, white-blonde hair. Her green eyes, which are a rather familiar shade, study him with no fear, only curiosity. Her pink dress is frothy with lace and ribbon, and the socks cresting above her patent leather shoes, although both trimmed with lace, do not match.  
What's you're name? she says in a sweet, high, little voice. She speaks to him in English. The little girl's attention does not anger him, as such attention often does. It is just as though she is at the park, speaking to some other child her own age.   
It is strange. He lets his gaze sift through the crowd, looking for someone who is waiting for her, calling for her, looking for her. But there is no one, no mother, father, sister, aunt, nanny, no one. She is just as unattached as he in, at least for this moment. The swarm of pedestrians flows around them like living water, noisy, bubbling, bright.   
Not everything is as perfect as you think, he says quietly.  
She smiles.   
Farf! C'mon! Brad's gonna fucking leave without you in a tick!  
He straightens from the crouch he was in, losing the eye-to-eye connection he had, now that he is no longer at her level. He turns his back on her to follow Schuldig to the black limousine. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the girl, little more than a flash of pink cloth and white ribbon, skip off as though someone has called her. Over the din of human life, he cannot be sure.  
Jesus, you bastard, the German scolds affectionately. What the fuck took you so long? Schuldig bundles him into the limo, and gets in, too, shutting the door behind himself.  


  
  
A carrion crow sat on an oak,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,  
Watching a tailor shape his cloak;  
Sing hiegh-ho, the carrion crow,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do!  
Wife, bring me my old bent bow,  
Fold de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do,  
That I may shoot yon carrion crow;  
Sing height-ho the carrion crow,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do!  
The tailor he shot and missed his mark,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do!  
And shot his own sow quite through the heart;  
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow,  
Fold de riddle, lol de riddle, Hi ding do!  
Wife! bring brandy in a spoon,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding do!  
For our old sow is in a swoon;  
Sing heigh-ho, the carrion crow,  
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding ho!  


  


_  
Shu (O). End.  
Make of life what you will._  


  
  


* * *

**Author's Notes:  
Every murderer...:** Agatha Christie  
**I like little Pussy...:** Little Pussy, Mother Goose**  
As I walked by myself...: ** Mother Goose**  
Fili me ne ambules cum eis prohibe...:**  
My son, walk not thou in the way with them; refrain thy foot from their path:  
For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.  
Surely in vain the net is spread in the sight of any bird.  
And they lay wait for their own blood; they lurk privily for their own lives.  
Proverbs 1, line 15-18  
**If I'd as much money as I could tell,:** Young Lambs to Sell, Mother Goose  
**Run and catch, run and catch...:** Drusilla, from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lie to Me._ If anyone knows whether this is an actual children's rhyme, please tell me.  
**Read my riddle, I pray...:** An Equal, Mother Goose  
**Ich bin das Alpha und das Omega...:**  
I am Alpha and Omega the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty.  
Revelations 1, line 8.  
**A carrion crow sat on an oak...:** Heigh-ho, the Carrion Crow, Mother Goose. My friend Rei-chan says she knows another version of this, but I'm not terribly familliar with it... It's more graphic, I guess... Bu I'm sticking with mine for the time being.  
If you think this is extremely confusing, I don't blame you. This was written as a character study of sorts, an attempt to delve a little bit into Farfarello's mind, into his memories. It was written completely out of sequence, and then, once I had finished, I ordered it as I saw fit... So, if something seems chronologically out of place, then it probably is.   
I actually enjoyed writing this, and it was something I've been wanting to do for a long while, now. I love Farf about as much as I love Ran... Meaning, a lot. He's my favorite little evil ghost.  
If anyone wants to point out errors in the translations, or any further history of any of the nursery rhymes, I'd really appreciate it.   
  
  



End file.
